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Step right in

To this gallery of art,

Featuring the works of one

J. Lockhart.

Don't mind the mess;

It's part of the show -

Even the razor blades

And the shotgun ammo.

Did you gasp?

Is your heart filled with dread?

Behold the brilliance

Of the thoughts in his head.

No brush strokes here,

No palette's blend -

Just the raw remnants

Of a life's bitter end.

In this gallery

Of despair and strife,

Art meets death, depicting

The fragility of life.

A scene so brutal,

Yet eerily serene;

A juxtaposition

That is rarely seen.

Shards of glass

And rotting meat,

Water-damaged wood

Under your feet.

A dull knife glistens

Like stars in the gloom -

A silent witness

To this sorrowful room.

Abstract expressionism

On the wall;

A hastily written note

In the middle of the hall.

A grisly exhibit,

A haunting display -

Life's ephemerality

And its decay.

Who was this man?

Why was he here?

Nobody knows;

Nobody cares.

He lived as a ghost

Before he died;

Existence unknown

Despite his cries.

All around him,

In chaotic grace,

Silence speaks

In every space.

His body remains

For all to see -

His gift to the world,

He left behind an

Art gallery.